Operation Cobalt
by TheBeautifulStuff
Summary: WORLD WAR II AU. Bored and unhappy combat medic Captain John Watson is given the opportunity to join an elite commando group going behind enemy lines. Eventual JohnLock, but it'll take a while to get there. Please point out historical inaccuracies if you see them! The rating will go up, I'm sure.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: If you spot historical inaccuracies, LET ME KNOW so I can fix them! Thanks for reading and/or reviewing!**

Prologue

The thing John missed most about home was the tea. It was an old brew, certainly nothing to, hah, write home about, but it was comforting and strong and very English. It wasn't anything typically to miss in the scrum of combat training and medical emergencies that were his current method of operation.

To be honest, there were many other things he should have thought about. Bill Murray, a couple bunks down, complained loudly and long about the potato stew they were served on Thursday nights and rhapsodized about his wife's famous goulash to anyone who would listen. Dave Anderson, a decidedly greasy piece of humanity and with about as much backbone as a banana, sparked some empathy within John when he spoke of his sweetheart Sally back home. Even little Tommy Dimmock, not even twenty, who missed his mum so much that he was physically sick the first week at training, had better things to miss than John.

But John had no one, certainly no woman waiting for him to swan on home in his uniform. His relationships had been abrupt and whirlwind; he was by no means a virgin, but the women he had grown up with had certainly influenced what he thought was important about a relationship. Lieutenant John Watson Senior, combat medic, had been killed in the Battle of the Somme saving a life, leaving Margaret Watson with two children, Harriet at seven and John at three.

Nearly thirty years later, John couldn't remember the last time he had seen Harriet. Probably at Mum's funeral, scant months after he had completed his medical degree. Harry had looked miserable, but not for the obvious reasons, clinging desperately to Cyril's arm and slurring her words worse than ever, the neck of a bottle obviously protruding from her bag, eyes red and puffy from lack of sleep rather than any real sentiment.

John hadn't said more than ten words to Harry, watching the entire spectacle with the first attempt at his rock-solid demeanor he perfected when he went into the military to pay for his education. Many of his commanding officers recognized his name, and some were kind to the young man following in his father's footsteps to save lives and be a great man just like his Da.

But that was not what John wanted.

John wanted completion. He wanted to be able to solve problems quickly and efficiently, with the minimum amount of fuss, and with a minimal amount of cleanup to do afterward. This attitude spilled into his work, and while promotion had been within his grasp for almost a year, his commanding officers were wary of him. His methods were certainly capable of saving lives, but they were completely unorthodox and in some cases dangerous. After the third denial of promotion, John swallowed, gritted his teeth, and dully settled into what he knew would be his occupation for the rest of the war, perhaps the rest of his life, a fully trained combat medic with everything but the combat.

His mandatory marksmanship records brought him to the attention of one man. This man, referred to in all conversations as the Inspector, came to one such practice of marksmanship, gray eyes narrowed as he watched the medical man empty a clip into the head and heart of a dummy with almost perfect accuracy, then with equal precision when practicing shoot to injure, not kill, landing shots on kneecaps, through shoulders, and clipping the waist and hip on either side of the target without a second thought.

As John cleaned his gun, he saw the Inspector watching him. The man gestured, and John followed him out into the hallway. Not seeing anything to salute, John folded his arms, looking him in the eye with that solid, rock-like set to his jaw that made his superiors nervous.

"Sir."

The man did not return the courtesy, gazing at him with cold eyes. "You're a fully trained combat surgeon who is wasting his time treating sore shoulders and minor lacerations as your superiors are impressed and yet distressed at your somewhat unorthodox methods to combat medicine. Your father served in the Great War, but you are not acting out of a sense of familial intent, but rather wish to make your own way in the world and make it away from your family, not particularly difficult with a drunkard sister. You are easily impatient with the shilly-shallying of the full operating theater which is why you maintain your current situation."

John blinked. "I suppose you read that information in my file. You've got one, don't you? All you government types have some sort of dossier, right?"

"Just your marksmanship scores, John." There was a hint of a smile, appearing feral in the fluorescent light of the hallway. "I believe you are in a similar situation to that of a small group of men I have been recruiting for the past six months. You are all impatient with how things are currently, and you are willing to do whatever it takes to get to that next step in the fight against Hitler. Perhaps your motivation is that you wish to avoid waste; another's might be for a different, but no less valid, reason."

John didn't flinch, not so much as blink this time. "I want to know who's been saying all this."

The Inspector sighed, and John felt he had failed some sort of test. "I observe." He leaned closer, gesturing to a piece of paper with WATSON, J in large capital letters across the top. "Combat medics content in their occupation, particularly combat medics still stationed on this side of the Channel, do not attain scores like these."

John shrugged. "It's fulfilling. Pays the bills." The almost unnoticeable tightening of the muscles in his jaw spoke otherwise, as the Inspector observed them, and rebutted coolly.

"And you know that's a farce." The man smiled and handed him a manila envelope. "Captain Watson, knowing this is a volunteer mission behind enemy lines with little chance of survival, do you accept these orders to join this elite commando team?"

The words slipped from his mouth before he could help himself. "Oh, God yes."


	2. Chapter 2

** A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, I would love for you to tell me what to do better in a review!**

Office of Strategic Services

70, Grosvenor Street, W1

Order 43.56.1297-322

Captain Watson, J., M.D.

March 21, 1941

You are ordered to serve active duty in the grade of rank shown above for the period shown in active duty commitment below. You are released from your present assignment. You will proceed from your current location in time to report on the date shown below.

Report to: Group Captain Lestrade, G. RAF.

Reporting date: March 28, 1941.

Assigned to: Operation Cobalt, headquarters classified.

Active duty commitment: five years.

Purpose: To systematically destroy and dishearten the German military forces by any means necessary.

Additional instructions: to be given in person.

FOR MILITARY USE

Auth: H, M. Inspector.

MDC: 12.561.

Pers con no: 1477.

Place EAD or OAD: Midenhall, London.

HOR: 1294 St. Martin's Lane, London WC2H 9JZ, United Kingdom

Comp: Medical.

PMOS: 1492. Sex: M.

Format: 172.

John looked over his orders several times in the next few days, trying to determine what exactly the Inspector had been signing him up for. There was no open declaration that he would be going behind enemy lines and certainly no indication they would be engaging the enemy directly. However, the line mentioning Operation Cobalt gave him pause.

There had been rumors about a strike team going around the younger and more impressionable members of the armed forces stationed with him. Little Dimmock in particular loved hearing stories about the bravest of the commando units commissioned by Churchill to strike at the Germans where it hurt. John had dismissed the rumors out of hand, simply because no one would dare send British soldiers behind enemy lines.

There had also been other, more substantial rumors that Great Britain might in fact be on the losing side in this war. John was not an extremely patriotic man, but the thought of losing to the Nazi war machine made him uneasy, if not worried. It seemed someone else was more worried than he, if the unit John was now part of had been commissioned.

John met Group Captain Lestrade soon after. The man was taller than him, still very physically fit for his age, and offered no real external clues to the questions John had. However, unlike the Inspector, Lestrade seemed to go out of his way to make John feel more comfortable. "Call me Greg," the man offered, looser skin around blue eyes wrinkling as he smiled. "I suppose you've got a fair few questions in your head."

John nodded. "Yes, sir. As you say, quite a few."

Lestrade chuckled. "All right then. Come on out to our headquarters tomorrow and I'll show you around. We're based at 221B barracks. The lads'll be glad to see a new face."

The next day, as John arrived with his kit and bag, he wasn't sure glad would be the word to describe this lot. The other officers were clearly commissioned for their intelligence and youth, and not to put too fine a point on it, they looked quite capable of pursuing whatever mission they were given without a medic trundling along afterward. There were four men in the room, casually chatting amongst themselves, but they gave the impression of coiled springs, ready to leap into action at a word from Lestrade.

The group captain introduced them casually, gesturing to each in turn. "This is your team now, John. Eric Adler is our sabotage expert, Henry Knight works mainly in demolitions, and Lucas Sandler handles communications. Gentlemen, this is John. He'll be working with us on Cobalt."

Eric smiled and stood, extending a hand. "Lieutenant Eric Adler. Good to meet you, sir."John studied the young man carefully; the green eyes and shaped face reminded him of a dancer, light and nimble. "If you need to steal a car or crack a safe, talk to me first."

John smiled. "I'll remember that."

Lestrade nodded. "Eric's the youngest but definitely not the least experienced. Saved him from five years in prison, eh?" he added with a jovial clap on the shoulder. Eric didn't look pleased, but he shrugged and smiled unashamedly, to his credit.

Henry Knight waved from the couch, still in conversation with Lucas Sandler over some technical detail in rugby. John ambled over, trying to keep track of the conversation. He'd played a little in uni, but medicine was decidedly of more importance than running up and down a muddy field with a bunch of other blokes.

"I'm just saying, that was a complete technicality!" Sandler stressed, before turning to John at Lestrade's meaningful cough. "Oh, er, sir." The young man straightened and stood after a moment, offering his hand. "Lieutenant Lucas Sandler, formerly of the American volunteer corps before saddled with you." The American was built on a larger scale, at least six feet four by John's estimate, and was possibly the most ruggedly built man John had ever seen. Bull neck didn't even cut it- John was glad to get his hand back in one piece.

"Doesn't understand rugby a ruddy bit, sir," the other rejoined, also standing. "Captain Henry Knight. Pleasure to meet you, sir." Knight was much more English, to John's private relief. Standing a little taller than the medic, his air of calm and competency was easy enough to read, until he clasped John's hand a little more tightly than the doctor had expected, and whispered to him conspiratorially. "You got a demon chasing you?"

John looked at him, startled by his choice of words. "Not in so many words, no. I suppose we all have a few."

Knight's eyes met John's only briefly, but John could read sleepless nights and damaged psyche more clearly in those few seconds than in an hour's worth of psych consultations. "Some more so than others, sir."

John let go of his hand as soon as was tactfully polite. "I see."

The fourth man, sitting solidly in an armchair, hadn't even acknowledged Lestrade's entrance. John eased his way past Sandler and Knight, avoiding the Englishman a entirely unintentionally, before approaching him. "Captain John Wat-"

"I know who you are," the man muttered. "I also know that you've been in contact with the Inspector, have a remarkable inability to maintain long-term relationships, a whole basketful of neuroses—I'm sure the psych ward would have a field day- and strong moral positions." The man straightened and looked him in the eye. "Aside from the morals, you'll fit in quite nicely here."

"Part of being a medic, I'm afraid," John commented lightly. "They seem to get upset if you develop a like for combat."

"Don't be ridiculous. Your superiors are afraid of you, not simply because of your accurate marksmanship records, but because of your connections to John Watson Senior and an entire network of guilt surrounding his untimely death at..." the man paused for a second. "The Somme, if I'm not mistaken."

John's eyebrows flew into his hairline. "The Inspector's file-"

The man rolled his eyes. "This has nothing to do with the Inspector and everything to do with observation, John."

Lestrade, watching the exchange from the corner, smiled grimly. If John could get along with the diva, he was sure to be fine with the rest of the lads. With a subtle gesture to the rest, he dismissed them from the room. Himself always preferred to meet his new so-called subordinates in person. Speaking entirely honestly, Lestrade, deep in his psyche, knew that this wasn't his team, not really. It was a team revolving around the man currently speaking with John, and this was John's make or break moment.

John held his ground solidly as he had when the Inspector had done the same trick. "Yeah? I don't see my da's service record written across my forehead, mate."

The man really was quite expressive; his eyes rolled back in his head, and he gave a sigh before slumping once more into the armchair. "Dull. Dull, boring, predictable."

"Sorry, what-"

The man spoke rapidly, annoyance clear in his tone. "John Watson Senior is one of the few medics who was killed protecting another soldier due to incompetence on the medical headquarters' fault. His patient was literally miles away from even a small field hospital. There were no options for him to work in and yet he did the best he could, still managing to save many lives. Why do you think so many options opened up to you so quickly? This was a final chance for them to rectify a grievous mistake." Grudgingly, he added, "Your service record is stellar, but that aside, your rapid climb to captain and sudden, screeching halt at that rank is quite glaringly obvious."

John's face was a study in dueling annoyance and amazement. "And the actual battle he died in? That's not public information. For that matter, neither is he, outside of the medical fields..."

"Easy enough," the man responded carelessly. "It went on far too long, was the most devastating to the medical field soldiers. You're a young-looking forty or an ill-looking thirty five raised almost entirely by two women, so the most logical assumption to make is that he was killed very young in your childhood, but not soon enough for you not to idolize him in some fashion, as can be seen by the fact you still use Great War-era boot polish that most likely belonged to him," he finished with a small smirk.

John couldn't help it. His jaw dropped. "That...was amazing," he managed, after a few moments. The man looked inordinately pleased.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Quite brilliant."

The man sat up a little straighter, dropping the uninterested act. "That's not what people usually say."

John felt a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. "What do they usually say?"

"Piss off. Or if you're the team, go bloody deduce someone else is Knight's favorite." The man looked shy about his powers of observation, but at the same time proud of them. John felt himself warm to him, at least a little. This man couldn't have been much older than Eric; in the terms that had previously described John, an ill-looking twenty five or a young-looking thirty. Taller than Sandler, but thin and willowy, he would tower over John easily when he eventually stood, looking in no inclination to do so at this moment.

"Let's try this again," John offered. "Captain John Watson, fully trained surgeon, just saddling up for this Operation Cobalt bit. I'll be attached for five years."

The man smiled. "My intent is that you are attached for much less time than that, Captain Watson. You see, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a consulting mediateur."

"And that is precisely-"

"I am given a job," the man, Holmes, interrupted again, gray eyes hardening, "and I don't stop until the job is finished. Since I'm technically a civilian consultant, I take the jobs I like, and have some freedom to reject others."

John nodded, amazed and a little overwhelmed. However, the man wasn't done. "But back to the matter at hand, I don't believe you fully understand Operation Cobalt if you believe you'll be in the field for five years."

"Yeah, Group Captain Lestrade-"

"Call him Lestrade or he'll be upset."

John gritted his teeth. As much as the man was intriguing, it really was annoying how much he interrupted. "Yes, all right! Yeah, Lestrade didn't have much of a chance to explain anything, and my orders are just as vague as that Inspector."

Sherlock Holmes' lips curled into a grin. "When you think of ending the war quickly, John, in our favor, what would you predict to be the catalyst?"

John shrugged. "Perhaps an assassination of high-ranking officials, maybe even Hitler. God knows we've tried."

Holmes' eyes gleamed as he finally stood, stretching to his full height-good God, was he six seven?- one hand carelessly adjusting his dark blue scarf. "Ah, but Captain, this time, you have me orchestrating it."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I update a day earlier on my tumblr than if you are at all interested in getting chapters faster or merely gaining another follower—I almost always follow back. URL is the same as my username, TheBeautifulStuff. **

**Action's coming next, so please stick with me! Thank you for reading.**

"Ever done aerial combat? Been in a plane on fire? Had to crash a plane on purpose?"

John was a tad startled by the questions, but recovered well. "No. Not as of yet. Why d'you ask?"

Knight grinned as they walked towards the firing range; while Lestrade liked what he'd seen of John's interactions with the team, Knight's own results needed work, and John was tagging along to get used to the feel of the group. Adler and Sandler would be along after they finished their sparring routine, and Holmes had vanished soon after his dramatic declaration to the medical man.

John's mind worked at the entire team, trying to determine exactly what he was in for. While Holmes seemed confident in his own work, it was hard to tell how much of that was posturing and how much was actual brilliance. Knight was psychologically on edge and would likely be the weakest link in their chain of command. Sandler seemed open and friendly, if a little slow for John's liking in combat missions, especially what they would be embarking on. Adler, on the other hand, was incredibly mysterious and exceptionally quick at the draw. John had a feeling Adler would manage to surprise him more than once.

"That's how we're getting into Germany. Well, the four of us. Bloody prince Holmes gets to go in like a swanning celebrity with the German high command, prob'ly."

"How are they swinging that, then?" John asked, genuinely curious. "No one's really said what he does."

Knight smiled, but didn't say anything else, changing the subject abruptly to firearm usage.

Late that night, as they made their way back to barracks post-ops, John found himself walking beside Adler. He was definitely the quietest, but there were clues in his movements and tendencies that indicated he enjoyed what they were doing. It was a surprise when he spoke first, his voice still not fully matured into its rapidly lowering tenor. "Sherlock is...intriguing."

John sighed. "You can say that again. Every time I try to figure out what exactly his purpose is in all of this, I get shut down almost immediately. What is he, a spy? An actor? It's like Lestrade doesn't approve of him, somehow."

"That's because Group Captain's afraid of him," snorted Adler. John's eyebrows rose, and Adler added, "Sherlock is a genius. He's obviously a bit of a tosser and his methods are rather bizarre at times, but his results are always stellar. Even this plan can't blow up in our faces."

"But what IS the plan?" John asked, a little louder than necessary, his frustration reaching record levels. "Lestrade's gone half the time, Knight's a...a mental mess, Holmes dislikes me when I'm not shocked into praising him, Sandler doesn't know anything and you've avoided me since I got here."

Adler smiled to himself. If John hadn't noticed the look Holmes had shot him when he entered, hadn't seen how the man's eyes lit up as John accidentally praised him, hadn't realized that the consulting mediateur was always lurking around the corner whenever the medic was working with the rest of the team. Holmes was interested, then John was really rather dense.

And it made Adler squirm with glee, as it proved something he'd wanted to prove for as long as he'd known the man—the Work, as Holmes referred to it, could be temporarily derailed by a strange, unhappy man who was almost embarrassingly ordinary.

Meanwhile, John threw up his hands in exasperation as Adler also ignored him. "What does it take to get a straight answer around here, exactly? Bloody orders from the generals?"

"No, Captain," another voice rumbled from ahead. They had arrived back at the room John had met the team in; as far as he understood it, they treated it as the common room, a place to go when not doing anything else. Holmes was sprawled across the entire sofa, Lestrade in his armchair, and Sandler and Knight sat on two chairs they had dragged from the breakfast nook down the hall. John straightened, looking towards Holmes questioningly. "I prefer to explain my methods myself."

John folded his arms. "Oh, splendid. Right, we're all here. Why not give us an actual plan, tell us what we're volunteering for?"

"Don't end sentences with prepositions," the tall man said carelessly.

John let out a small growl before he reined in his temper. "Look, you bloody tosser, I'm not about to listen to someone I don't know without a solid plan and outline of what we're doing! In case you haven't realized, these people rely on you!"

"John," Lestrade said quietly, trying to cut him off, but John wasn't done, wheeling abruptly on his heel and pointing to the Group Captain.

"You, sit down and be quiet." Lestrade's eyebrows rose, but he did as asked. Apparently the medical man had quite a temper when provoked.

Turning back to the man on the couch, John snarled, "I am placing not only my life, but the lives of five potential patients, INCLUDING yourself, in your hands. I'm not stupid, and I'm not about to demand you explain absolutely everything, but seriously. We volunteered for this. You have to trust us not to bugger everything up, you have to tell us what you're doing before we jump in headfirst, and finally, Christ, you have to sit up and make room for other people on the fucking couch!"

Holmes' eyes finally met his, startled, before Adler snickered, cheapening the moment. The consulting mediateur stood, stretching, then reclined on the couch in a way there was room for John to sit down. "Thank you," the medic said stiffly, as he plopped down onto the cushion. "Now, the other two."

Holmes nodded, swallowing. "The plan, John, is quite simple to anyone who is familiar with undercover work." He looked up to the others and amended hastily, "And others, I'm sure. You're all quite bright in your own, barely adequate ways."

John rubbed a hand over his face, but refrained from commenting further.

"I have a...contact. He has helped me acquire the full appearance and mannerisms of a Gestapo major, along with the paperwork that I have transferred back to France from the Russian front where I was investigating financial irregularities within the eastern command."

John nodded. At least they were getting somewhere. However, Knight erupted violently. "Gestapo? What the bleeding hell, mate? You know what those bastards do to people?"

"I know very well," Holmes shot back, gray eyes glinting dangerously. "However, I will become one who prefers mental torture over physical. My powers of observation will aid enormously in the process."

Knight slumped back, obviously still uncomfortable, but Adler sat forward next. "Mr. Holmes, you don't look German. You look and act very British."

At that, Holmes stood and buttoned up his long black coat he seemed to wear everywhere. His face, never open at the best of times, closed into a hard, angry countenance, eyes radiating cold and distaste for whomever they looked upon. _"Andere Länder, andere Sitten,_(1)" the man replied in perfect German.

John coughed. "Right, well, that covers you. What about us?" He gestured to the remaining men. "Are we merely your backup?"

"Of course not," Lestrade answered. "We're getting Sherlock in, but then we're working primarily with the French Resistance to make commando raids into German territory every few weeks. They get us the info and we take the hit for them if we get caught. We'll communicate with Sherlock on occasion, but it'll be sporadic, limited to brief radio messages."

"What are the chances of us getting caught? We'd be labeled spies," Sandler said calmly, but with a small note of fear in his voice. "No uniforms if we're going serious commando style, no real purpose besides crushin' the bastards."

"John will always have his British uniform on," Holmes snapped. "The rest of us, yes, I'm including myself, will just have to be incredibly cautious. Carry your dog tags only if you can't speak fluent French or German enough to talk your way into being treated as a Resistance member."

"Hold on, why am I in my uniform?" John protested. "I'm not about to clean up your messes! If that was what I signed up for, I can do that right where I was in hospital!"

Lestrade shook his head. "You'll be right with us, but the Geneva conventions protect you as a medic much more than as a spy or soldier. If you absolutely have to black up with the rest of us, you'll have a medic armband."

John folded his arms. "This is unfair."

"No, it's keeping you safe," Holmes hissed, "so stop acting selfish."

An embarrassed silence fell. Finally, Adler coughed. "Right, so, when and where are we going in?"

Holmes answered. "Two weeks. Brush up on your German and French. Make sure you're physically fit. I'll be arriving separately and Lestrade is leading your team, not me. Ask him for further details. John, I want a word."

He swept out, his coat flaring, and John sighed and followed.

(1) German idiom basically meaning "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I took German a very, very, very, very (wait for it) VERY long time ago. It's probably pretty horrendous. If you have any corrections, I welcome them! Please review if you have time, too. I do love seeing those notifications!**

John was not in the mood for dramatics. He was pretty certain he'd made that clear to Holmes.

Sherlock was not in the mood to explain everything to any damn person who asked. He was pretty certain that was self-evident.

John wanted Holmes to be realistic. Lives were at stake here, and not just theirs. The ramifications of a team like the one being formed could go far beyond the lives of six men.

Sherlock wanted John to understand why he did what he did, to ask more questions, to understand exactly why he was a genius. It wasn't simply because he wanted an ego stroking. The doctor was one of the few who was making an attempt to keep up with him.

"Well?" said doctor demanded, arms folded across his chest in what Sherlock categorized as a defensive position. Shirt wrinkled and hair unkempt; no attempt made to rectify his appearance post-workout. Boots less shiny but still cared for every night. Dog tags wrapped in rubber around the outer ring to avoid noise—nice touch- and small bags under the eyes. Sherlock met John's eyes after a moment.

"I wanted a word with you without Adler so close by."

John sighed. "What's wrong with Adler?"

"He's...wrong." Sherlock couldn't put a finger on it, but something about the boy rubbed him the wrong way. His physical appearance, perhaps; he looked far too young to be that accomplished a saboteur.

"Yes, well, I'm here. What's going on?" John asked, a little more kindly. Holmes was obviously distressed, and he wouldn't intentionally make it worse.

Sherlock stepped closer into John's space, almost in contact with his skin; the older man's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move away. Keeping his voice low, he explained, "I want you to be my eyes, John, among our group. I will be in sporadic radio contact, as you know, but I cannot trust Lestrade to tell me everything. He often misses the important details, anyway. You, on the other hand, are trained to notice minor details and things that would be normally labeled as insignificant as clues to one's medical condition. I need you to do that for me, John."  
"Why do you call me John?" the other replied. Sherlock froze, unsure how to reply, but luckily John continued. "Everyone else calls me Captain or Doctor Watson. You immediately jumped to John."  
"Civilian," Sherlock tried. "I call Lestrade by his name."

John shook his head. "Still his last name, same with Adler and Knight. What's special here? What makes me different?"

For a long moment, Sherlock didn't know how to respond, looking at his gloved hands. "You are exceptional in more ways than the one. I don't have time to explain, as I need to brush up on my Russian, but suffice it to say that you are more important than you know."

With that declaration, Sherlock—God, now John was calling him by HIS first name—strode down the hallway, coat billowing dramatically. The medic watched him go, more puzzled than before, and now certainly more worried about the upcoming mission.

Lestrade knocked on the doorframe. John jumped, then nodded for him to come out. "He's gone."

The Group Captain scratched his chin. "Yeah, he does that."  
John said slowly, "I...he said I was important. What does that mean?"

"With Sherlock, who knows?" Lestrade shrugged. "C'mon. I'm taking you lads out for a last truly English dinner before we leave on Friday."

John followed the man, but his mind was still on Sherlock.

Sherlock, a name that was a puzzle in itself. John puzzled over it as he sat between Knight and Sandler, both shouting happily about a football match they were following over the radio. Sherlock. What kind of parent would name their child something so Victorian?

The man was oversized in so many ways; tall, slender, yet spare with words and even more so with kindness. A flair for the dramatic. A tendency to ignore questions until confronted with them directly. Perhaps a bit of psychosis tied into being superior to others.

As Knight jogged John's arm for the third time that night, he found himself thinking longingly of a way to politely head off to bed. Trying to catch Lestrade's eye was impossible, and Adler was curled up on a barstool flirting with the barmaid. John sighed and tossed down some change before telling Knight more than once in a loud voice that he'd be heading back to headquarters.

Though their barracks were a short walk from the bar, John couldn't recall exactly which were theirs. Fog was obscuring everything, and the lights were dim as the possibility of an air raid was unfortunately very real.

Speak of the devil—a siren screamed above moments before all lights on base shut off, and John was left entirely in the dark. Stumbling forward, he collided with the side of a barracks building. Groping blindly along the side of the building, John found a door and hurried inside, resting his head on the wall as soon as the door closed. Thank God. He could have-

Voices further down the corridor rose in anger. John hesitated; there was no real reason that sounds should be muted during a German raid, but it was respectful towards others who had lost friends or family in earlier raids. Grumbling, he felt his way down the hall, following the conversation only partially.

"This is completely reckless, even for you."  
"I don't see you sitting at home with mummy."

"I am doing my part for the war effort. You are engaging in potential suicide!"

"I get bored, you know that."

John sighed. One voice he recognized for sure as Sherlock, but the other was familiar as well. He couldn't quite place it. Vaguely aristocratic in dictation, the impression of being looked down upon-

Another explosion rocked the building; the shelling was unusually accurate tonight. A sharp gasp of breath from down the hallway followed by the descending clicking of well-polished heels finally loosened John's tongue.

"Sherlock?" he tried after a minute. No response, but John hadn't expected one. Stumbling along as before, the medic almost shrieked when he touched something soft.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock hissed irritably.

"Who was-"  
"No one, do you understand me John, no one. He doesn't exist, he's never been here." After a moment, he added, "I believe he'd prefer the term arch-enemy."

John swallowed. "And you're meeting with him during an air raid?"

"It's not like I wanted to meet him," the genius huffed. "He found me this time."

John shook his head. "Bloody incredible."

Sherlock folded his arms, a useless gesture in the dark, before impatiently seizing John's hand. "We don't have any time to lose, John. Let's get back to base."

John immediately jerked his hand away. "Get off!"

"Do you want to blunder around in the dark like an idiot?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, another gesture lost in the dark. "Come along."

"Git," John mumbled, but held out his hand. Sherlock seized it tightly and practically flew down the corridor, muttering quietly under his breath, something about statistics, if John understood him.

Despite the fact that they were running at top speeds in a lightless corridor with no sense of direction while the bombs of sworn enemies fell around them, John couldn't help but feel safer than he had for quite some time. Perhaps it was the hand to hold; he certainly tightened it when Sherlock took the first turn. More likely, it was someone interested in him.

No, not like that. John wasn't...bent, or looking at blokes. But Sherlock listened to him, looked to him on occasion, even trusted him. John needed someone to need him, and that was really all there was to it.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, and John cannoned into his jacket, blundering in the folds. "Sherlock-"

"Shush!"

John clamped his mouth shut; Sherlock edged forward, ear pressed to the wall. John mimicked him.

"You have made mistake after mistake. Allowing him here in the first place was a huge breach of security."

John's brow furrowed; the voice was familiar. Something of a classist accent, but not as polished as Sherlock's. Higher. Younger, perhaps. He tapped Sherlock on the shoulder, about to ask him who it was, when the next phrase stopped him cold. "We must take all steps to eliminate John Watson from this commando unit."


End file.
